


Strike Zone

by stardustandswimmingpools



Series: newsies modern high school!au [2]
Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alternate Universe - Baseball, Alternate Universe - High School, Baseball, Baseball Idiots, Boots is a good batter everyone else shut up, Everyone Is Gay, Everyone Knows They're Gay Except Them, Gen, Insults, Pre-Relationship, Swearing, angry pitcher, blink isn't on the team but he's moral support, but high schoolers though, crutchie is mentioned sorry he doesn't play, delightful assholes, i made up brooklyn newsies for this, most of the other guys do though, neither does davey, please read the notes! important information, puddles! what a cute name, specs is a delightful asshole, this might be a series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-29 14:41:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10856112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardustandswimmingpools/pseuds/stardustandswimmingpools
Summary: The Manhattan Newsies play Brooklyn. Race gets to second base. Spot plays second base.





	Strike Zone

**Author's Note:**

> hi! here's another installment of the timeless fic series that needs a better name, in which the newsies are a high school baseball team. there's some important canon to know to understand this fic!  
> 1) Race, Jack, and Crutchie are brothers, all adopted by Medda.  
> 2) Race and Spot both play second base, but Race is on the Manhattan Newsies and Spot is on the Brooklyn team, which is unnamed as of yet, they just call themselves Brooklyn.  
> 3) Jack is the team captain, and he's a junior. Race is a sophomore. Spot's also a sophomore.  
> 4) Mush/Blink is already established. So is Newsbians, though they're not mentioned in this.  
> 5) this is kind of "the beginning", or a beginning at least, before race and spot are really Friends, they just kinda know each other and like to insult each other a lot. it's one of the newsies' first games against brooklyn, so. definitely takes place _before_ the first work in this series (WFCRWIDFL goddamn that's a long name why @ myself)  
>  I think that's all - so please enjoy! there's a chance that I'll make this a series of one shots all centered around the baseball team. you can tell me if you want that. I might do it anyway. but in any case, there you go!
> 
> also: my dear friend @doodleddaisies on tumblr is co-making this AU with me, so thank her too.

“Strike!” The ump calls, and immediately Race indignantly snaps, “That was  _ not _ a strike!”

“Race,” Jack warns from the dugout.

“It wasn’t a strike!”

“The ump says it’s a strike,” Jack retorts. “So it’s a strike. Stop whinin’ and play the game.”

Race glares at him before lining up to bat again. Mush sidles up to Jack.

“That wasn’t a strike,” he whispers, and Jack nods.

“Oh, absolutely not. That was so far out of the strike zone it was almost in Queens. Who hired this ump?”

Mush chuckles.

* * *

On second base, Spot calls out, “Hey Higgins, the goal is to hit the  _ ball _ , not the  _ air _ .”

Race, without breaking focus, calls back, “I’m actually aimin’ for your head, Conlon.”

The Brooklyn team collectively says  _ oh shit  _ as Race grins with ease, and then the ball whistles through the air.

It connects with the bat, soaring far into right field, where — Race doesn’t know any of their names — one of the Brooklyn kids stumbles backwards and it falls to the grass just behind him. Race whoops as he rounds first base and slides into second just as the ball slaps the palm of Spot’s glove.

The Newsies dugout cheers loudly, and Race hears Specs shout, “Damn right!” He grins.

“Asshole,” Spot says, whacking him with his glove anyway. Race gets up, dusting himself off.

“You’re just jealous of my slidin’ skills,” Race taunts, as Spot throws the ball back to the pitcher, who goes by Whistler, because of how goddamn fast he pitches. Race has only ever exchanged snippets of conversation with him. He’s a tough guy, burly, and seems perpetually angry.

Spot  _ pffts _ in dissent, eyes trained on Itey, who’s batting now. Jack says he has some fancy-ass strategy for determining the lineup: Race is a strong hitter, so he goes first, and then Itey, who’s a lefty, to throw them off.

The team knows it’s all bullshit. Crutchie can vouch for this, as he once walked in on Jack throwing darts at a piece of paper that, upon closer inspection, had the names of everyone on the team in a chart.

Crutchie had sworn not to tell anyone, and had promptly told Race, who’d spread it to the whole team.

They keep up the pretense that Jack knows what the fuck he’s doing. It boosts his self-confidence.

The first throw is a ball that, thankfully, the umpire acknowledges as such. So is the second one. 

“Is he gonna walk Itey?” Race says indignantly. “What a dick!”

Spot elbows him. “Don’t call Whistler a dick or he’ll rip yours off.”

Race almost chokes. “Christ.”

Another ball.

“Don’t walk him!” Race shouts, and Spot elbows him again.

“Shut up, asshole.”

“ _ You _ shut up. Ain’t nobody asked for your opinion.”

Whistler throws a pitch that’s supposed to be the fourth ball, probably, but it’s in the strike zone, and Itey swings and misses.

“Just so you know,” Spot says, without looking away from home plate, “this is the last time you’s ever gonna be safe at second.”

Race laughs. “Like I’m ever safe ‘s long as  _ you’re _ playin’ second? Please.”

“I do it a hell of a lot better than you,” Spot retorts, even though Race can see he’s fighting a wry smile.

Itey swings and misses again. Full count.

“Not true,” Race says.

“True,” Spot counters. “You can’t prove me wrong.”

“I can get more people out per game than you,” Race challenges. “Wanna bet?”

Spot glances at him for a split second before looking back at home. “Make it back to second base safe an’ I’ll have an answer for ya.”

Race raises an eyebrow. “Fine.”

“Fine.”

Itey swings and misses again. Strike three.

“Shit,” Race says. 

The team claps sympathetically as Itey tosses his bat into the dirt and retreats to the dugout.

“Guess he really didn’t wanna be walked,” Spot observes as Finch takes the plate.

“He knew what he was doin’,” Race agrees. “Even Crutchie woulda known those was balls your crazy pitcher was throwin’, and I’m pretty sure Crutchie couldn’t point out who the catcher is.”

“Who the hell is Crutchie?” Spot says distractedly. “An’ Whistler ain’t crazy.”

“Yeah, he is,” Race says. “Crutchie’s my brother. And Jack’s.”

Spot turns his head at that. “You got a brother?”

Race rolls his eyes. “Clearly you ain’t listenin’ to a word I say. Two brothers, Conlon.”

Spot scoffs. “Fuck off. Your brother’s the team captain?”

“Yeah,” Race says defiantly, “an’ if you call bias I’ll kick your teeth in.”

“Wasn’t gonna,” Spot says loftily.

Race snorts.

* * *

Finch hits a single. Race doesn’t run.

He cheers when Finch gets to first base, though.

“Go,” Spot encourages slyly. “Run, I dare you.”

Race just smiles sweetly at him.

Boots gets up to bat.

“I remember this kid,” Spot mutters. 

A smile stretches across Race’s face. “Then you’ll remember he’s the best damn hitter New York has ever seen.”

Spot makes a gagging sound. “I remember he thinks he’s all high-and-mighty hittin’ it to the outfield every damn day, but we get ‘im out more often than not.”

Race rolls his eyes. As Whistler throws, Race says, “See ya ‘round, Conlon.”

Boots hits a low ball into right field that rolls into the grass, and Race takes off like a rocket, sprinting to third base as the right fielder — what’s that kid’s name? Twitch? Race is pretty sure it’s Twitch — scoops the ball up and launches it to the third baseman. 

Race feels the guy’s glove whack his shoulder just before his feet hit the base.

“Shit,” he swears, and then grins good-naturedly at the triumphant-looking third baseman. “What’s your name again?”

“Crack,” the guys says, and there’s, like, a 90% chance he’s fucking with Race, but he does look like the kind of guy who would do crack. Race pats him on the shoulder.

“Nice catch, Crack.”

He turns, meets Spot’s eyes, and winks. Then he jogs off the field to his teammates in the dugout, who clap him on the back sympathetically while whistling for Boots and Finch.

“Good hustle,” Jack says. Race laughs.

“Thanks,” he answers, and turns to look at Spot. Finch made it to second base safely, but Spot is focused on Puddles, who’s at bat, and neither of them are talking. “‘S easy to hustle when there’s a monster guardin’ second.”

“Y’know, for a monster, he sure was chattin’ you up,” Specs observes. Race shoulder-checks him.

“Fuck off. He’s an asshole.”

“An asshole with the hots for you, maybe. He ain’t chattin’ up Finch.”

“Well, Finch is too nice for that.”

“Right, you’re an asshole,” Specs says, smirking. “So you two work well. You got  _ chemistry _ .”

“Don’t be gay, Specs.”

“ _ Boys, _ ” Jack intervenes. “Practice your batting or somethin’. Come on. Specs, you’re on deck. I’m afta you.”

Specs wiggles his eyebrows as he backs out of the dugout. He grabs a bat and swings.

“I hate that kid,” Race says conversationally, “but goddamn, he has a mighty swing.”

Jack snorts. “Got that right. I think he benches.”

Race whistles appreciatively. “Spot’s an asshole,” he adds. It feels necessary to establish this.

Jack looks curiously at him. “You’ve mentioned.”

“Yeah, well, I’m assertin’. He’s an asshole. We ain’t even friends. So there. Specs can suck a dick.”

“I’m sure Specs would  _ love _ to —” Mush begins.

“ _ Thank you Mush _ , that’s enough of that,” Jack says loudly, although Race can see he’s about to dissolve into laughter. He figures his brother should get some kind of a break. The newsies are the  _ worst _ .

“Jackeline, you’s in the hole,” he points out. “Go.”

Jack looks at him. “Are you in charge?”

“Of your ass? You bet I am.” Race grins at his brother. Jack rustles his hair.

“Alright, but behave,” he says warningly. “I ain’t callin’ Blink or Davey to babysit you again.”

Mush sits up straighter. “Howzabout we call Blink anyway?”

Jack looks at him, raises an arm, and lets it fall. “If you want,” he says helplessly, like he’s entirely through with this team. “But no distractions.” Sometimes Race marvels at Jack’s ability to put up with shit 24/7. It’s not like he can escape the team when he goes home. Race is  _ on _ the team. Jack’s some sort of superhero.

Mush’s face lights up, though. “Be right back!” He scurries out of the dugout and Jack meets Race’s eyes. Race grins. Jack sighs, grins back, and vanishes into the outdoors to work on his swing.

Mush comes back with Blink in tow. 

“Hi,” Blink says.

“What’s shakin’, Blink?” Dutchy greets, looking away from the game. “You guys should be watching. Finch is on third now.”

“Hey, nice!” Race leans out of the dugout and shouts, “Way to escape the second baseman, Finchy! I hear he’s a real dick! No manners whatsoever!”

A faint “fuck off” is heard from second base. Race cackles. Mush elbows him.

“Don’t be mean,” he says, frowning. “We don’t wanna make enemies.”

“Spot’s an inherent enemy,” Race says knowingly. “‘Cause he’s an asshole.”

Mush looks at him strangely, then shakes his head.

“Alright, whatever. You do you.”

* * *

They win the game by one run, scored by yours truly. Race also wins the bet: three outs to Spot’s two. Beating Spot, he decides, is the greatest feeling in the world.

“How’s it feel to have lost to the almighty Racetrack Higgins?” Race teases as they shake hands with the Brooklyn team. Spot glares at him.

“Only means we’s gonna crush you even harder next time we play,” he retorts, and when they shake hands Race feels Spot squeeze deliberately tighter than is normal.

Defiantly, he squeezes back, and they stand there, attempting the crush the other’s hand, for at least a minute, until Jack calls out, “Racetrack Higgins so help me if you don’t get your ass over here right this minute I will kick you off the team!”

Race levels his eyes with Spot’s as he pries his hand away. “Good game,” he says smoothly. “And you owe me.”

Spot raises an eyebrow. “Owe you what? You win braggin’ rights.”

Race snorts. “You really want me to go ‘round talkin’ about how I beat the almighty Spot Conlon  _ twice _ ?”

“Assumed you would anyway,” Spot points out, and Race grins. 

“Nah, I respect your pride, even if you’re an asshole. But you owe me five bucks.”

“Fine,” Spot says, straightening up as if to appear dignified. “Five bucks. ‘Til the next one, Racetrack Higgins.”

Race snorts. “What is this, a murder mystery? See ya, Conlon.”

He turns on his heel and jogs over to where Jack is. “The rest o’ the team is changing already,” he says. “C’mon.”

Race turns around for a second and walks backwards as they head to the locker rooms. Spot has also turned around, so Race flashes him a bright grin and another wink before doing a 180 and saying to Jack, “Race ya!”

Jack wins that race.   


* * *

**\+ bonus:**

Spot’s not, like, best friends with the Brooklyn team.

Sure, they’re all “friends”, but it feels more like he’s just the one everyone listens to. The veteran, kinda. “Boss”. Which he’s totally fine with. He doesn’t  _ want _ to be friends with them, really. It’s not like they’ve got scintillating personalities.

On the bus, a freshman who goes by Trek sits next to him. Trek plays first base, and he’s really damn good. He’s also a little slow. Maybe not the dullest knife in the drawer, but definitely up there.

“Who wazzat guy that kept being a lil’ bitch? The, whatchamacallit, the other second baseman, you know?” Trek asks conversationally. Spot glances at him, then looks out the window.

“What’s it to you?”

“You know ‘im?”

“No, I don’t  _ know _ ‘im. He ain’t Brooklyn. Who cares?”

“I'm only askin’, cool it,” Trek says. “You seemed awful chummy with ‘im.”

“He’s a Newsie,” Spot says, forcing as much disdain in his voice as he can muster. “I don’t bother with Newsies.”

“I’m only sayin’,” Trek says, because for god’s sake, he does  _ not _ know when to shut up, “you didn’t talk to nobody else. Only the second baseman.”

“I was askin’ him on techniques for soakin’ freshies who ask too many questions,” Spot says sharply. “Shut up about it.”

Trek grins lopsidedly. “Alright, boss. I won’t talk about ya boyfriend no more.” He mimes zipping his lips. “And I won’t tell nobody.”

Spot glares at Trek, lips pressed into a thin line, looming, until Trek finally breaks. “Okay, alright,” he concedes, holding up his hands in surrender. “I take it back. Lord, take a breather.”

“Go sit with Whistler,” Spot grumbles. “Bother somebody else.”

Trek shrugs. “I’m a’ight.”

“I said,” Spot repeats in a no-nonsense voice, “go sit with Whistler. I was serious about soakin’ freshies.”

Trek blinks. “Jeez, boss. Relax. I’m leavin’.”

He stands and scurries down the bus to the back, where Whistler is dozing off against the window and most likely will not enjoy Trek’s presence any more than Spot had.

Spot leans his forehead against the window. He attempts to avoid thinking the word  _ boyfriend _ for the rest of the drive.

He fails.

 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! i'm on tumblr @vivilevone or @do-you-ever-really-crash. 'til next time!


End file.
